


Love you when you're someone else

by liripip



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, accidentally fucking your nemesis, drunken anonymous sex, kinkmeme fill, then punching him in the face and feeling bad about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-04 23:49:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17314115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liripip/pseuds/liripip
Summary: Jack infiltrates a masked Talon get-together, gets drunk and hooks up with an anonymous man who was checking him out. Little does he guess that it is, in fact, his supposedly late husband.





	Love you when you're someone else

**Author's Note:**

> Slightly reworked fill for the new kinkmeme, for the following prompt: _In order to gather intel Soldier joins an event where everyone‘s identity is hidden. Masked ball, shady deals, a party, a furry convention, whatever it is, he meets a mysterious charming stranger. Given that he’s a widower and has nobody in his life he decides to respond to the flirting and go along for a night of hot anonymous sex. It’s only the morning after that he realises it’s Reaper, and that Reaper didn’t recognise him either._  
>  \+ bonus if they can’t decide between fighting and pretending it never happened  
> \+ extra bonus if they didn’t know the other is their “deceased” husband either
> 
> Warnings: drunken hookups, hungover fistfights

Jack will be the first to admit that he drinks too much. Maybe not as much ‘too much’ as it may appear to a casual observer, because the program left him with borderline superhuman tolerance and he’s built it up further during the nearly four years since his life exploded in his face and took everything that mattered with it. Downing a bottle of the cheapest rotgut he can get his hands on barely gives him a buzz anymore, though the taste is bad enough to distract him for a little while.

Tonight, though. Tonight he’s maneuvered his way into a masked soirée hosted by a woman he’s pretty sure is angling to rise within Talon, and while he _should_ be keeping his eyes on her machinations, his eyes keep drifting back to the open bar and the shape of the man standing next to it.

He’s already tipsy, which must mean he’s had enough that the bartender is likely to recognize him by now. He glances to the bar again, and the man drinking by it turns around and leans back, sipping on his drink and quite blatantly eyeing Jack as if deciding whether he’s worth eating or not.

Jack isn’t expecting the rush of heat he feels at the idea of letting him, his pulse thudding in his throat as he lets his eyes take in the man. Perfectly fitted suit over what looks to be a very impressive physique -- wide shoulders, tight waist, an ass that Jack thinks he could suffocate in and the thighs to hold him in place while he does. He’s wearing the same featureless white mask that Jack is, having lifted it from an unfortunately incapacitated guest, and his eyes are hooded in darkness. On his hands are fine black leather gloves like he just got back from a murder, and there’s an air of danger around him far more alluring than any cologne. Jack's mouth goes dry.

The man inclines his mask in greeting, raising his glass in a silent toast. _To bad decisions_ , Jack fills in to himself, eyes glued to the exposed skin between the man's jawline and open collar. He has the most intense urge to bite him, to be bitten himself, to throw himself at the mercy of this enforcer, assassin, whatever he is.

The hostess laughs aloud, and Jack's attention jumps to her. He'd almost forgotten why he came here. Her hand is on the elbow of a man Jack is pretty sure is involved with LumériCo, and they're both locked in animated conversation with a well-known journalist Jack recognizes as on Talon's payroll if not Talon herself. They're moving towards a recessed set of doors, flanked by well-dressed but no less obvious guards.

The man at the bar shifts fluidly, Jack's eyes drawn back to him like a moth to a floodlight. A gloved hand strokes down his hip, slipping into a pants pocket to discreetly draw attention to the generous offering between his thighs. His masked chin rises as if in challenge.

Fuck it, Jack decides. Good choices sure as hell didn't get him where he is today.

“Took you long enough,” the man purrs to him when he stalks up. His voice sounds odd, almost raspy, and this close Jack can see scars on his neck and throat. Shrapnel, probably. Good, Jack thinks. They have at least one thing in common.

“Bring the bottle,” he growls and sweeps by him, heading for the darkened gardens at the back of the house.

***

Jack has long suspected that his search for answers is nothing but an excuse for a years-long quest for self-destruction.

His current situation, a bottle forty year old cognac clutched in his fist as he works himself up and down some anonymous Talon enforcer's cock, is just another in a long line of attempts at feeling alive again or die trying.

 _So_ _what_ , he thinks to himself, taking a swig that burns pleasantly in his chest going down. At least they're using a condom, though Jack knows full well he would have gone without if the stranger hadn't insisted. It's nice that he was prepared though: Jack would have settled for having his throat fucked, the rougher the better, but he sure as hell hadn't complained when his partner pulled lube and condoms out of his pocket and bent him over a bench, slick fingers pushing into him without ever asking his name, just barely asking for his permission.

Maybe he does this a lot, Jack thinks. He hopes so. He wants to be fucked and discarded, wants to not be special. To not be remembered.

“Easy, easy,” the man he's squatting over breathes, and Jack isn't sure if he means with the liquor or the rough bouncing of his hips. The booze is seriously none of his business, but Jack supposes he deserves some say in their fucking. “Fuck, you're gonna make me come,” the stranger rasps, one hand guiding Jack into a slower, rolling rhythm, the other snatching his wrist and bringing the bottle to his own lips. Jack groans as the cock spreading him open nudges a good spot, sliding down the hot shaft until the man's balls are tickling against his rim. “You want more, do you?” the stranger asks, nudging his hips up to grind against Jack's.

“ _Yes_ ,” Jack snarls, lust and liquor curling hot and frustrated in his belly. “ _Fuck me_ , you bastard.”

The stranger chuckles, a dark, knowing thing that almost gives Jack vertigo with how familiar it sounds, but before he has time to think those hips roll up into him and he's fucked slow and thorough until he can't tell if the stars he's seeing are in the night sky or on the inside of his eyelids.

***

Jack is no stranger to waking up with his head pounding. He is less accustomed to the smooth sheets against his cheek like an echo of Before, and when he feels a hand on his shoulder he assumes he is dreaming.

“Jack?” the dream of his husband says, shaking him gently. “Come on, I know you’re awake.”

Jack drinks in the feeling of him, the memory. Maybe it isn’t a dream. Maybe he’s finally dead and this is the afterlife, though if Gabriel is here he doubts it is heaven. Still, he thinks, stubbornly snuggling deeper into the pillows. Hell has a surprisingly good laundry service.

“Jack,” Gabriel repeats, snapping his fingers next to Jack’s ear, and Jack recognizes something odd about his voice. It’s rougher than it should be, raspy. Almost growling.

Jack’s eyes snap open, and for a dizzying few seconds he takes in his surroundings. A hotel room, curtains pulled shut but the slivers of light sneaking in indicating that it’s well past morning. A trash can showed next to the bed, a bottle of water and a bottle of painkillers on the bed table. His dead war criminal husband, sitting in a pulled up armchair and looking like he has a bad taste in his mouth.

Jack stares at him for all the space between heartbeats, before turning his head and vomiting in the trash can.

“What,” he says as soon as he is able, spitting out the last dregs of sick. His blood is already boiling. “the _FUCK_.”

He’s not even consciously aware of moving, just the feeling of Gabe’s forearm deflecting the blow and shoving him back towards the bed. Jack stumbles over the trashcan, upending it and feeling vomit soak through his sock before he launches himself at Gabriel again. They grapple, Gabriel grunting as they both topple over the armchair and crash to the carpeted floor.

“I swear,” he grits out, twisting from the blow so that Jack’s decimating right cross only glances off his cheekbone. He’s not fast enough to avoid the jab to his stomach, though. “I didn’t-- hnng -- recognize you.”

Jack roars in fury and slams his fist at his face. Gabriel dematerializes right in front of him and Jack drives his fist right into the floor instead, hard enough that he feels bones snap in his hand. He hisses at the pain, twisting around, but Gabriel isn’t also fighting a murderous hangover and didn’t just wake up to look his dead spouse in the eye. His hand whips in to yank Jack off balance, and before Jack has a chance to get his bearings he’s spun around and caught in an armbar, Gabriel’s thumb pressing threateningly against the broken bones on the back of his palm.

“ _I’m sorry I fucked you_ ,” Gabriel snarls in his ear, and Jack bucks in his grip until Gabriel digs his thumb in hard enough to make him struggle not to scream.

“ _That’s_ what you’re sorry about??” Jack pants, then drives his head to the side as hard and fast as he can. There’s a satisfying crunch as the back of his skull smashes into Gabriel’s face, and the grip on his arm vanishes as Gabriel falls back, clutching his nose. Jack watches for a moment as Gabriel blinks tears out of his eyes, blood dripping from his fingers. Swallowing thickly, Jack reaches for the tissue dispenser on the desk and hands it over mutely. “Is it broken?” he asks after a minute of awkward silence, finally looking back to where Gabriel is trying to wad up enough tissue to not immediately bleed through it.

“It’ll heal,” Gabriel says, eyes squeezed shut and head tilted back. Tears are streaming down his face and even though Jack _knows_ that it’s an autonomic response to the nasal trauma, he can’t deny his own responding guilt looking at them. He sags back against the overturned armchair, cradling his hand.

“... I thought you were dead,” he says at last. Looking at Gabriel, it looks like it wasn’t far off: the shrapnel injury he’d noted on his neck is worse on his jaw and cheek, and it’s not the only new scar.

Gabriel slips open one eye to glare at him from above the mass of bloodied kleenex.

“It’s not like _you_ stepped forward to show that you’d made it.”

Jack shrugs. Thinking, he pulls off the sodden sock and tosses it at the fallen trashcan. A small part of his mind that still lives in a sane world gleefully informs him that they’re going to have to tip housekeeping very well to make up for this.

“How did I get here?” he asks at last, having discarded at least a dozen more confrontational questions. Gabriel snorts, the puff of air bubbling in the blood filling his nose.

“You passed out on my dick. I was just gonna prop you up so you didn’t choke and die, but--” He pauses and clears his throat, then drags the trashcan over to spit in it. “I recognized the scar.” He taps a finger against his hip, and Jack nods. That scar is from a bullet he took for Gabriel twenty years ago. He had _better_ recognize it. “Made me a little sentimental, maybe.”

“Thanks,” Jack sighs. “What are you doing with Talon anyway?”

Gabriel looks noncommittal, eyes closed again and head leaning back against the wall.

“It pays the bills.”

“Don’t bullshit me,” Jack growls, and Gabriel shrugs.

“Same thing you’re doing, I guess. Figuring out who screwed me. I’m just going right to the top instead of... ” He waves a hand vaguely at Jack. “Whatever it is you’re doing.”

Jack snorts.

“And what, you’re gonna sleep your way to it?”

One dark eye slides open at that, fixing him across the gulf of the hotel carpet.

“Really? Glass houses, Jack.”

Jack rolls his words around in his mouth for a moment before answering.

“Sure,” he says, looking at Gabriel looking at himself. Old and scarred and weary, stained with blood and with years of regret. “Not the first one I’ve brought down on myself.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I love kinkmemes so much, I would urge everyone to [check it out](https://overwatchevents.dreamwidth.org/3216.html)! Make a prompt! Leave a comment! Write a fill!


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